Elysian fire, burning bright
by pearypie
Summary: WWI: In the midst of the Great War, Charles Grey approaches with an offer of marriage. (How curious, then, that he should receive a bride, solider, and lover all in one day.)


_'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore_

 _A second time; for still I seem_

 _To love thee more and more._

\- William Wordsworth

* * *

Even though there are four pages filled full with her brother's elegant, sweeping cursive, Lizzy knows he hasn't written to her about anything important. It isn't that Edward thinks her stupid or incapable but the Great War has been in turmoil for the past two years and interlopers were on all sides of the battlefield. To think—just fifteen months ago Lizzy had been standing in the botanical gardens of the kaiser's palace and now, the Germans (along with the Austrians and the entirety of the Ottoman Empire) were their enemies. The sun is unusually bright, particularly for a mid-March afternoon, but Lizzy cannot bring herself to relish in the pale yellow radiance—not when her father and brother were so far away, commanding legions of men and walking on foreign soil.

Ciel, too, is gone but not to war—he has factories to run and treaties to make and is halfway across the world in America right now. She knows it's a blow to his English pride to ask aid from their former colonies but the untouched United States has more gold than all the Allies put together. Lizzy remembers mother reiterating something about American war profiteering but she refrains from pointing out that it's better for Britain to be paying for ammunition than the Germans or Austro-Hungarians.

Seated at her satinwood writing desk, Lizzy feels at a loss of what to do. It's unseemly for a girl— _woman,_ she quickly corrects, she's just celebrated her 17th birthday after all—of her stature to be seen working at the hospitals or clinics nearby. Mother worries, Lizzy knows she worries, but Francis Midford is nothing if not iron willed. It was mother who pushed Lizzy from the depths of her despair after Ciel ended their engagement and made ready to leave London. Mother and, though Lizzy is reluctant to admit it, _he—_

"My lady?" Paula's voice is soft and nervous, so unlike the cheery, unbothered maidservant Lizzy has come to know.

She hadn't even heard the initial three knocks at the door.

"Yes Paula?" Lizzy straightens in her seat, just in case mother was there as well. A lady must never slouch.

The brunette peeks in, eyes averted and lips downturned. "My lady you have a visitor."

 _A visitor?_ "Hannah Catherine isn't supposed to be here until half past three." She checks the rose carved wall clock hanging across her room. "It isn't like her to be so…early." She refrains from saying that Hannah Catherine—for all her charms—cannot seem to differentiate between the heavenly hours and, if not for the brightness of the sun and coolness of the moon, might have forgotten to eat, sleep, and rest altogether.

Paula refutes that theory with a nervous chuckle and now Lizzy is more than curious. Lady Hannah Catherine Crawford does not inspire fear.

"It's Lord Grey, my lady. Lord Charles Grey—the earl has come to see you."

* * *

Lizzy meets with Charles Grey—resplendent in his white calvary uniform adorned with various honors and ribbons—at the downstairs foyer with her golden curls pinned up and a dress of teal green silk on.

"My lord." She curtseys politely but curiously. She has only ever met the good earl in the fencing arena and, for all his bluster and playful teasing, the clang of sabre deflecting sabre—combined with the heaviness of the fencing mask—left little room for conversation.

And in any case, Charles Grey is Edward's friend—not hers.

"I must apologize on behalf of my mother if you've come to see her this afternoon." She stands ramrod straight, though only the top of her head meets Grey's chest. _He's grown._ She smiles. "If you have a few moments to spare, I could accompany your wait in the west parlor. Mother shouldn't be long."

"And where is the fair marchioness today? Gone to fight in the just war?" His voice is teasing, ready-made for battle. Each word is perfectly enunciated and said _just so_ to connote the lifelong knowledge of wealth and entitlement of one who has earned as much as he's inherited. His stance is confidently relaxed but Lizzy's knows Lord Grey's reflexes are sharper than the steel end of his blade and that his petulant taunts hide a warrior of formidable approach.

Instead, she gives him another smile, one that seems to make him pause for brief half moment, before his lips quirk up in a half-smirk as she begins to lead him out of the foyer. She's always loved the design her ancestors created, a pearlescent cathedral of creation with its high vaulted ceiling and medieval stained glass windows. Paula remains there, unsure if her mistress wants her to intrude.

"Mother has gone to meet with the Baron Winstead but she should be back shortly. We've just received a letter from Edward," she adds.

"Ah yes, good, honorable Midford." Lord Grey muses, pivoting on his heel so that he is walking backwards, arms crossed behind his head—the very picture of lazy elegance. "How _is_ he doing?"

"Very well, thank you." They pass through a corridor hung with portraits of field marshals and gentlewomen though Grey ignores them all. His silver eyes are fixed on her and Lizzy can feel her cheeks coloring because goodness, Lord Grey's gaze could cut through iron. "He's a colonel now," she smiles, looking up at him. "And—well, I wish I could tell you where he was stationed but he's been expressly forbidden to say anything about that."

"Doesn't surprise me in the least." Grey chuckles. "All those higher-ups? Unibrowed men who can't crack a smile. Half of them don't even deserve their titles—General Glover ought to be called Gluttonous Glover. He can lay siege to the queen's pantry but ask him to appear on the battlefield and he'll insist his fat arse won't fit through the door." He snorts and Lizzy is torn between indignation, shock, and a burst of fluttering laughter that eventually escapes her rosy lips. One hand immediately comes to clamp her mouth shut but it's too late—Grey has already heard her and he's grinning right back, looking positively victorious.

"You mustn't say such things." She manages between giggles. "Lord Glutto—I mean, Lord _Glover_ is a very fine and—"

"He's a half-baked moron." He smirks, narrowly missing a suit of armor to his right. "You can't be this sweet all the time, Midford. I'm sure you've got a few people you wouldn't mind calling a bloody idiot."

"Ladies don't swear." She sniffs primly.

"You must get tired of those tittering, empty-headed fools you're forced to surround yourself with day and night." He continues and Lizzy does her best to maintain a straight face. It's her fault she supposes that he can make her laugh so easily—on the fencing arena Lizzy's courtesy dips, her tongue becomes looser, and their japes and jibes echo throughout the empty gymnasium in between the clang of their sabres and Lord Grey's boisterous laughs.

"We're almost at the parlor—" she begins but is interrupted when Charles turns with such speed that Lizzy nearly trips over her own two feet. He catches her of course, holding Lizzy hostage in his arms, silver eyes sparkling as he grins down at her.

"Come now Midford—give me a name of someone you hate. Any name—you're already far too angelic to be human." He says this with perfect reason and Lizzy is torn between exasperation and bashfulness because really, she's got more faults than anyone she knows.

And if he keeps holding her like this she really will faint. His arms are warm, and he's pressing her so close to his body that she can feel his heartbeat, strong and even, pulsing beneath his chest.

"Well there is a name for those ladies but it isn't used in high society…outside of a kennel." She says, face flush with embarrassment and mind clouded with thoughts of silver eyes and strong hands—

And the look of Charles Grey, head thrown back as he laughs, laughs, laughs. It only takes Lizzy half a minute to realize what she's said.

"Oh my _word_ —! I didn't mean—well, I suppose I _did_ mean—but…it isn't—" she's stumbling over words and scrambling to rectify her humiliation though that just makes Lord Grey laugh even harder.

Finally, Lizzy gives in to inertia and simply buries her face in Charles's chest and wonders if death might take her now. She's a bit young to be fitted in a coffin but really, that's preferable to _this_ breach of propriety—

"Oh Midford," Grey manages, one hand coming to tangle itself in her hair, "you really are the girl for me, aren't you?"

She mumbles something utterly incoherent and feels a soft, warm pressure pressed to the top of her head.

"Speak up Midford, I can't hear a damn thing when you're kissing my chest."

Lizzy's fairly certain she's surpassed all shades of red—her face must be a mural of scarlet by now—so she resigns herself to whatever teasing Charles has in store for her and sighs. "You really are fond of all this aren't you, Lord Grey?"

"Fond of what?"

"Making me wish I could drown when there's no water around."

"Gracious, you've got a bit of a poet in you, don't you Midford? That was positively depressing!" Grey laughs. "Go on—continue! I'm sure there are a thousand young girls who would love to lambaste their romances to poetry such as yours."

"You're making fun of me again, my lord."

"And I'll continue to do so if you remain right here in my arms." He tightens his grip around her and Lizzy thinks her corset is completely unnecessary—not when Charles does a very fine job of squeezing the life out of her himself.

"You're making it very difficult for me to be polite, Lord Grey." She looks up, her golden hair mussed and her cheeks rosy pink. And for one strange moment, Grey stills—eyes locked on her face, lips parted as his breathing becomes shallow and he leans forward, as if…as if ready to—to _kiss_ her before remembering where they are.

He clears his throat. "I don't like it when you're polite." He says, left hand coming to tap the tip of her nose. "Courtesy's _boring,_ don't you think?"

"Courtesy can be the only thing a woman has when she's married." Lizzy murmurs unconsciously, gaze sliding downward.

Grey snorts. "Well you've got a sword, don't you? If you don't like the bastard you're married to you can run him through—but that'd be terribly boring too, don't you think?"

Lizzy looks at him. "What do you mean?"

"Well," he begins, causally sliding his hand under her chin, "wouldn't you rather have a husband you can properly duel? It'd get awfully dull just cutting down the same old plebs again and again, don't you think? You may as well marry a futon. But," he hesitates and looks into her wide jade eyes (Lizzy swears a hummingbird's appeared where her heart should be), "I daresay _I'm_ interesting enough to hold you in a duel until the end of time." His forefinger comes to brush against her chin and it doesn't even occur to her that their stance has become an embrace and that the usually brash Lord Grey is unfurling every emotion he has into words that he's longed to say for _months_ now. "Midford?" He cups her cheek. "What do you say?"

"To what?" Her voice is faint—almost delirious as she clings onto him.

"To marriage."

"With you?"

He chuckles. "Who else?"

"I—"

"Lady Elizabeth!" Paula's voice breaks through her revere and she is suddenly all too aware of how close she and Lord Grey are, lips almost touching and she breaks away so suddenly that she would've fallen flat on her face had it not been for the good earl's reflexes.

"I should just lock you in my arms for safekeeping, huh?" Grey laughs, holding onto Elizabeth's wrist.

Her retort is silenced by the appearance of Paula, half-running to where they are. "My lady I apologize for this intrusion but the marchioness has returned and—" Paula looks uncomfortable, brown eyes moving from Lizzy to Grey. "I—"

"Well what?" The earl demands, moving closer so that he and Lizzy are now standing side by side. "I was promised tea after all." He smirks down at her and Lizzy wonders if it might be possible to sew his mouth shut with her sabre.

"Um, I just—well, my lady," Paula takes a deep breath, as if ready to dive down to hell, "Earl Phantomhive is here as well."

* * *

If looks could kill, Ciel Phantomhive would have been dead three times over. The four of them—Grey, Lizzy, the blue-faced earl, and Marchioness Midford—are all seated around a lacy white tea table and _of course_ Phantomhive has sat himself right next to Lizzy.

"I thought you to be in America until next month." Lizzy breathes softly, hands folded together.

"I was—I still am." He nods stiffly. "However I received an urgent telegram from a source of mine in France regarding the Battle of the Somme." He paused to take a sip of tea and Grey knew what was coming—could tell by the blankness in the Watchdog's eyes.

"Ciel—"

"Midford." Grey took hold of her hand, forcing her to look at him. "Take a deep breathe and remember the strength of your brother. The strength of your family name—you're the knights of Britain, you defend our island and honor with all the valor we striving lot lack. You're strong, do you understand?" He looks into her eyes with an intensity that burns, not even glancing towards the marchioness or Phantomhive but allowing himself to drown in the bright jade of Elizabeth Midford's eyes.

She gaze back, a pained expression decorating her pretty face before Grey squeezes her hand, wanting desperately to remind her that _she is not alone._ And Midford, clever little thing she is, takes a breath, closing her eyes ever so briefly before she squares her shoulders, nods at him with something like love (or maybe he's just decided to delude himself a bit more because Phantomhive's here) and turns back to the table.

Her former fiancé doesn't say anything—doesn't even acknowledge her—but Grey finds he really doesn't care.

"Colonel Edward Midford has been captured by the German defensive. His whereabouts are unknown but his capture has been reported as definite."

A silence falls over them and isn't this _fucking wonderful,_ Grey is filled with an irrational burst of anger that really makes no sense. Who is he getting angry for? The loss of victory? This island nation he's called home for close to thirty years? The fact that one of their most capable field commanders has been kidnapped? Or was it—

"I see." The marchioness's strong, firm voice reverberates throughout the room and Grey is just the tiniest bit pleased to see Phantomhive sit that much straighter.

She could cut his head off and Grey wouldn't blink twice.

"My husband—where is he now?"

"I cannot reveal the field marshal's location Aunt Frances, I'm—"

"Charles may I speak with you in private?" Elizabeth suddenly turns, looking towards Grey with glimmering eyes and for once, Phantomhive looks completely and utterly shocked.

"Elizabeth!" Frances Midford is indignant but Grey is willing to risk her wrath if it means escaping this doily-infested torture chamber of hellish wonder.

"I see no problem with that." He rises from his seat at the table, giving the marchioness a short half-bow. "Excuse us."

Elizabeth follows him, almost completely in sync.

* * *

"Did you know?" That is the first question that escapes her lips when they leave for a shaded corridor, not a servant in sight.

Grey doesn't hesitate. "I had my suspicions but no concrete proof. Her majesty put me in charge of reorganizing the British divisions after Gallipoli, I've had almost no physical contact with the Western front."

"And my father—?"

"Field Marshal Midford's in France right now." Grey's voice was low. "After Verdun her majesty sent him to advise Philippe Pétain; she knows your father studied under Bismarck in his youth and that no one has more knowledge on German warfare than he does."

Elizabeth nodded and Grey knew she was compartmentalizing. He could see the fire in her eyes, the fury of determination rising to the surface.

"You're not thinking of doing anything stupid are you Midford?" He asks casually, arms crossed behind his head.

"I'm thinking of doing the most idiotic thing possible." She looks at him, an inferno blazing in her emerald eyes. "I need to get to France."

"Well holidaying in Paris has become rather unfashionable so might I suggest Copenhagen or even China?"

"I can't let Edward die there!"

"He's been captured—not decapitated—"

"You know as well as I do they'll torture him within an inch of his life. He's a valuable prisoner of war but that doesn't mean they can't make him suffer until his soul breaks and he comes home a ghost of a stranger."

"Midford—"

"Please, Charles," she surges forward, hands clenching at the lapels of his uniform, "I know you're due in France within a week—"

His heart is stuttering in his chest and while Grey is foolhardy about many things, he'd sooner risk the loss of his sword hand than see the only woman he cares about injured. But Elizabeth—the girl he's dueled, laughed, spoken, and confessed to for nearly seventeen years now—can read him better than almost anyone and he knows she can see the protest in his eyes.

"I won't go as Lady Elizabeth," she promises, "I'll be another solider in the regiment—you know I could cut down a hundred enemy attackers if you commanded me to—"

"War is an ugly business, Midford." He lowers his arms, placing one hand on either side of her face. For once, there is something pensive in his silver gaze, a warning he can't bear to express aloud. "You will fight and suffer and possibly _die_ in those trenches—"

"You think I would give in to death so easily?" She lifts her chin and the courage of her ancestors seems to burn through her. "I will _not_ submit meekly to _anything_ or _anyone._ " She places two hands over his right wrist and moves closer, their breaths mingling together as she looks up at him. "I will endure, Charles, as I always have."

Her words resonate in the quiet dark their in and he can feel his heart cleave in two. Her skin is so soft and she carries with her the fragrance of magnolias and honey but—he _knows_ her. Knows how her capabilities could exceed even the most experienced general and that her faith and fidelity are borne from the truest form of sincerity. She can hold her own and needs no protector but Grey has never done anything by halves. Should she appear on the battlefield, _he_ would be the sword fighting right beside her, doing all he can to ensure her safety—even if it meant dying in the blasted dust himself.

"Midford." He utters her name quietly, lips barely moving in this rare moment of uncertain solitude. "I—"

"I know." She breathes, one hand coming to press against his cheek. He closes his eyes, leaning into her touch. "You're the only one I would think of asking, Charles. You know me— _every part of me._ And if you trust me as the partner you spar with on the fencing arena, if you trust me with your time and skill, then let me return that trust." She leans in, mouth inches away from his own. "Let me prove to you that I can stand tall and proud by your side."

"You don't need to prove anything to me Midford—" he whispers fiercely and why should she? She is Boudica and Zenobia and every other warrior-queen brought to life. He opens his mouth to tell her so but she shakes her head, one finger coming to press against his lips.

"I need to prove _this._ To myself."

He feels the anger rise, coursing through him like molten fire. "You want to fight in this godforsaken war to prove _what?_ Death won't justify anything, you silly, precious girl—"

"That I can be more than a lady." She says these words quietly—so quietly—that Grey almost misses it. There is no elaboration that follows, no grand scheme of explanation but in that moment, he _understands._ Oh the vanity, pride, and beauty of Elizabeth Midford surges forth and Grey knows that the love he feels for her is more than that—more than _love._ It has to be, otherwise he would've never considered her as the only woman he'd want for a wife.

She has his respect. His amity, his trust, his confidence—she is his partner in all things and _really,_ how many lovelorn bastards get to see the love of their life cutting down enemy soldiers while looking pretty as a picture?

As soon as he thinks this, as soon as the resolution has been made, he sees her eyes brighten—sees her smile grow to radiate a loveliness that could revive all the summer roses.

"You'll fight by my side, do you understand?" He whispers fiercely. "And even if some boy is kneeling before you, weapon astray, you cut his throat and continue on, do you understand?"

She nods, strong and sincere. "I do. And you—you must promise to stay by _my_ side. No stupid heroic moments?"

He grins, hand snaking behind her neck. "I promise." He breathes and that is the last thing he says before their lips meet, exchanging their final vow of promise.

 _I do._

* * *

 ***Boudica:** Queen Boudica was the leader of the British Celtic tribe Inceni who led an uprising against conquering Roman forces in 60 AD.

 **-** **"Well there is a name for those ladies…"** — adapted line spoken by Joan Crawford in the 1939 film 'The Women'

 **-** **Field marshal:** the highest possible rank in the British army

 **-** **The Gallipoli campaign** Grey talks about took place from April 25, 1915 to January 9, 1916. It was trench warfare at its worst—the summer heat caused conditions to deteriorate rapidly; sickness was rampant, food quickly became inedible, and the bodies of dead soldiers released swarms of black corpse flies. By the time December came, the Allies had decided it was time to evacuate from the Gallipoli peninsula of Ottoman Turkey—a major blow for the Allied forces, who'd thought the capture of Constantinople to be an "easy" victory.

 **-** **Battle of Verdun** (February 21 - December 18, 1916) was the longest battle of WWI—and also the costliest. The town of Verdun became a battlefield for the German and French forces and had strategic implications throughout the rest of the war. Due to the German attack, the French forces were rapidly reduced, forcing the British empire to lead the "big push" forward on the Western front.

 **-** **Battle of the Somme** (July 1 - November 18, 1916) was a disaster for the Allied countries, with the British suffering 57,000 casualties on the first day. The Somme is notorious as one of the bloodiest military battles in history—the Allied and Central powers lost a total of 1.5 million men in a span of 141 days while their territorial advance was just over 7 miles.

 **A/N: I am such a shameless Grey/Lizzy shipper XD**

 **Feedback welcomed and encouraged :)**


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